


Bombay Sapphire

by LoniceraAstray



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Implied USUK - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-12 22:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20163988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoniceraAstray/pseuds/LoniceraAstray
Summary: The azure liquid was your most shameless trick, yet I couldn't help but drown in it.IndiaXEngland, India's POV. Less history. More bubble. Implied USUK.An alcohol fic, that's it.





	Bombay Sapphire

**Author's Note:**

> I picked "Raj" as India's name because the first fic I read about him used this name =w=

A droplet of alcohol vapour floated up the 19th century steam-punk style Carterhead, carrying the fragrance of layers of botanicals, condensed into a small drop, the colour of Vyrnwy the artificial lake.

Isn’t that your most successful magic? The most shameless trick?

120mL of azure gin, 40mL of fizzling tonic, a slice of lemon set on the brim of cocktail glass.

It was as simple as child’s play, yet enough to drown you in.

Born in the 80s, it has nothing to do with my largest city, nor does it have any direct correlation to my long-lost precious jewel, yet you said it reminded you of me, of the glory we once shared, of the century we spent together.

It was a lie.

Like everything you told me, gave me, did to me. A lie.

You were panting shallowly, slender fingers inserted into unkempt blond hair as if having a headache. Your cheeks flushed theatrically, which neither the cheap alcohol nor the sloppy sex could explain. You didn’t even bother taking off your shirt, asking me not to take off mine, even if the July air in Mumbai was dripping water.

You called me. I came to you. We had sex. If there was something left unchanged during a century and six decades, that was it.

You had always been the one to spread your legs when you were with me, even back when I was one your humble colonies. Maybe you wanted me as substitution for your restless American lover? Not likely, because of the too obvious difference in physique and appearance. Maybe you just wanted to enjoy something inertly, like having a Turkish bath? Not likely, I knew you were a predator to other nations like China or Egypt, and you enjoyed it a lot.

Or could it be that you had foreseen all these from the beginning?

You called me to stop. You sat up, took a gulp of the azure liquid in the glass, let out a satisfied breath, then unbuttoned your shirt and sank back into the bed. Like a ragged doll. You asked me if I wanted a bit, I refused. I knew it was made of botanic grew inside delicate glass sheds in rainy, gloomy England. I didn’t like rain, and I felt uncomfortable about everything that was labelled “English”.

Your political system, your education, your army, your moral code, everything that you brought was one thing from outlook, another thing in our practice. You lectured me, saying my people believed in everything yet nothing after all. I challenged you, saying your people believed in one thing yet everything on their own. I was wrong. You did believe in one thing, which was the unreliability of all beliefs.

The first time I saw you was after my people’s rebellion and your Queen’s decision to establish direct control over me. You were in your glorious red uniform, looking down from a snow-white horse, studied me from my hair to my soles, green eyes calculating. Then you sighed, saying that you could never conquer me. Why, I asked. You are obedient enough to follow my rules, you said, but also stubborn enough not to take them seriously.

What about you? Would you take me seriously, then?

You started coughing. Must be the temperature. I stopped moving, asking if you need a cold towel. Thank you, Raj, but no, you said. I touched your forehead, ensuring you were not having a fever. You took my hand and kissed it playfully. Sometimes you act like a child, I’m sure few people or nations ever knew that.

I pulled out of you, taking a tissue, dipping it in the gin and rubbing it on your temples. It had been a long time since I was so close to you. I could feel your veins throbbing under your thin, pale skin, around your delicate jawline. Your emerald eyes could be as big as a cat’s if you wanted them to. Maybe as enchanting as those of the Siamese my neighbour once gave me. Anyway, you were beautiful, and I always knew that.

I always knew. You had always been like that. Old nations like us rarely change. Once on a bridge outside Taj Mahal, I asked you why you were coming here if you didn’t have faith in converting me. I’m not converting you, you said, do you believe in progress, a universal process which no one can reverse? I’m trying to help you fit into that process. I asked you if you believed in reincarnation, which was also universal and irreversible. You sneered and said no they were different. See? I said, there is an ultimate difference in our ways of understanding the world. You are trying to convert me if you deny that.

Visible change, however, did take place. The universities, the churches, the railways which suffered from less accidents back then. These changes took place anywhere so that as time went by, I tended to regard them as naturally there instead of being brought by you and your people.

People liked to ask if me and my people would be better or at least as well if you hadn’t come. History, however, never speaks in the language of possibility. History is about what actually happened, not about what not.

What actually happened was, your rule served as a catalyst of my change rather than the fuel itself, if there was any change at all.

It was through your unfair treatment that I learned about fairness. It was from the deprivation of freedom that I learned about liberty. It was due to the gap of wealth and material goods that I decided to become more ‘civilized’, not due to your unsuccessfully imposed moral code.

And it was through my entering you that you entirely, thoroughly, irreversibly entered me like no one else did.

I had you on the silk sheet of a veiled bed deep inside one of my palaces. On an old cane chair creaking and swaying back and forth as the Hindu chanting floated in the air. In a dim storage room filled with the fragrance of liquorice ad cassia during an endless monsoon rain. Erotic massages under the shadows of banana trees. Stealing kisses on horsebacks in the woods. And things both of us would feel too shameful to recall. Yes, that was the century we spent together.

I doubt any nation who ever lay down beneath you would have such a strong impression of you. All they had to deal with was a stick up their ass, which was easy to endure. For me, however, I was forced to embrace, to caress, to absorb all of your beauty. I shall not look from your emerald orbs in order to ensure there’s no flash of pain in them. I had to listen carefully to your elongated moans in order to find the right pace and spot. I had to wipe or kiss away the sweat on your eyelids in case they fell into your eyes. And I had to hold on to your slender legs which reminded me of a pair of most precious ivory, as if I was a sinful poacher sneaking into a primitive forest.

You were smart, England. You seduced me so that I would feel guilty, that I could not say no to you. You thought you could conquer me in this way, but you were wrong.

You had never conquered me, or any one of us, just like the sea could never conquer the land, and vice versa.

You had always been dreaming, drowning in your sea-blue lie, never wake up.

You knew nothing could last forever, yet you refused to face the wax and wane of power, when the one on the central stage happened to be you.

You felt inferior, insecure for how small and weak some islands you were. So you explored, expanded your rule to the continentals, yet you never rule like a true continental.

Now, you retreated to your little islands again, sipping a cuppa while complaining about weather and brexit, like the world hadn’t cared for you and you hadn’t given the world a damn.

Wrong again, my dear England.

You closed your eyes, thin wrists in my grip started swirling and squirming, legs began uneasily nuzzling my back. I knew you wanted to moan, you wanted to cry out, but it was too less-business-like for a quick shag with a former colony in a cheap hotel in a city that changed her name after you left. I stared at your rosy lips and the thin trace of drool beside it. I did something I haven’t regretted.

I kissed you.

I made it as gentle as possible. My full lips ghosted on your thin ones, then took your upper lip between them, sucking and sliding slowly like playing a flute. A soft moan escaped your throat. I took it as a sign of invitation and entered your mouth with my tongue. I felt you kissing back after a minute, for you held my head close, roughly pushed aside my tongue and started invading my mouth. I spread your legs further apart so that I could get better access while continue to kiss you. At that moment, just for a moment, I felt you were mine from inside out.

The bite marks left by the possessive American maybe last night in D.C. was still prominent all over your chest. Your eyes stubbornly stayed closed. Your shirt was still dangling over your shoulder, the hard fabric almost lacerated my fingers. None of those mattered, for I only wanted a moment’s verification, through deduction or epiphany or psychic power or whatever, that maybe you felt the same as me, that you had desired me, drowned in me, maybe loved me, at least for once.

Even if it only lasted for one second.

The bedside table, along with the glass on it and the liquid in the glass, were rocking. Thrusting deep and hard into your soft, warm tunnel, I felt a little dizzy, a little surreal. Was I the one who was dreaming? Or drunk from tasting too much of you? I couldn’t think straight, pleasure was building in my body as I was filling you and your moan and cry and scream were filling my mouth and nostrils and ears. I came inside you without warning. You didn’t blame me or was too weak to do so. You smiled and sang oh Raj you are amazing tonight I kissed your wet temple and was intended to say that’s because you are so beautiful your Majesty but oh—

It turned out that Bombay Sapphire was really, really intoxicating.

**-Fin-**

**Author's Note:**

> So it turns out to be an alcohol ad_(:з」∠)_  
Bombay Sapphire is the gin, not the cocktail!  
I wrote this while drinking the said liquid so I hope it feels right...And I guess there's no alcohol warning tag required in AO3? For they asked for my birthday when I visited BS's official page...I was shocked for I live in a country where you can buy alcohol through your Android app (no certification required), then they'll deliver it to your dormitory within minutes.


End file.
